Paying tribute to another human being is a public speaking
occasion that we're more likely to encounter but less likely to
prepare for. As with other forms of public speaking, our contemporary
ways of paying tribute have roots in the oratorical tradition of
ancient Greece. This classical form, called the epideictic
speech is described in Aristotle's Rhetoric. Many present
day American orators, like members of the Disabled
American Veterans, still regard this mode of public address as
important, having adapted ancient Athenian techniques to New World
sensibilities.

Perhaps the most common form of tribute is the eulogy. Here is an
example delivered by my friend Patricia Pearce, the pastor at
Tabernacle Church in University City, Philadelphia, PA.

Last week I was flying home after spending a few weeks in
Colorado and New Mexico. As the plane began its descent into
Kansas City, I looked down at the meandering rivers and green
farmlands, and one of the people that came to my mind was Fern
Pearson. And I think the reason I thought about Fern was that
when you met Fern you felt like you had finally come home. I
remember the first time Kip and I came to Butler when we were
interviewing with the Pastoral Search Committee, which Fern was
serving on. The first time we met her she gave us -- well, you
can probably guess -- she gave us a batch of homemade peanut
brittle. I wouldn't be exaggerating if I told you that Fern and
her peanut brittle were one of the reasons Kip and I decided to
come to Butler. It wasn't actually the peanut brittle per se that
was so compelling, although it was certainly delicious. It was
more what the peanut brittle represented. It was Fern's down home
hospitality that was displayed in such tangible acts of kindness,
that was so compelling.

Fern didn't talk hospitality and generosity. Fern lived it.
And she lived it in concrete ways, like buying her little brother
his first car, a model T, for the staggering 1930's price of $25,
and laying out dolls on the beds when the granddaughters came to
town, and sewing clothes for loved ones, and getting to Harry's
Dari King at 5:00 in the morning to make and decorate the donuts
so they would be just right for the customers, and making her own
greeting cards with messages she had written, and taking ginger
snaps around to everyone at Christmas time. An avid baker, Fern
preferred giving away her goodies rather than keeping them for
herself.

Having lived all her life in this area and with her many
friendships Fern was a natural to write the Butler News column in
the paper, keeping people up to date on the latest here in town so
that even people who had moved far away could feel like they were
back home again. Fern knew that a home is much more than four
walls and a roof. A home is, as one poem in her Bible called it,
a hallowed place, where people feel supported and genuinely cared
for, where people are encouraged to be the best that they can be.
And although Fern had a strong sense of home, she was by no means
a home body. Always more than willing to pack her bags and take
off, she was renowned for being constantly on the go. On her
treks she would stop along the way to visit family and friends and
check out every McDonald's from coast to coast.

But in some ways it was almost as if Fern never really left
home; she just took it with her. On one trip out to California to
visit her brother, she took along a basketful of Missouri
tomatoes. When she got out there she found that the tomatoes in
California were more than plentiful, and yet, the tomatoes she
brought were somehow better because they came from home. And no
matter where she was, she always had a warm greeting for everyone
she saw. As her family will tell you, Grandma Fern never met a
stranger. The name "Grandma Fern" has such a mild sound to it,
which perhaps masks her more adventuresome side. In the scrapbook
she made of her trip in 1992 to the west coast she included
several photos and brochures of the Royal Gorge in Colorado and
one photo of a group of people white-water rafting. Under the
photo she wrote, at the age of 80, "I hope to ride the rapids
someday."

It is impossible to do justice to a life in a few moment's
worth of comments. Each of us has come here with our own unique
recollections about Fern. And yet in this room, in each of our
memories, much of Fern's life and personality lives on. So I would
like us now to take some time in silence and in an attitude of
thanksgiving, to savor our own memories of Fern and of the many
ways that she touched us... One of the many lessons we can learn
from Fern is how to reach out to others, not just with words, but
also with tangible acts of giving. And it's not as hard as you
might think. Here's how you do it.